by Tamara Leigh
What would he do? Even when told of what had transpired—further degrading Bayard—would he waver on his word that he would accept no excuse were an alliance not made by the given day? Would Godsmere truly be forfeit? Quite possible, for what liege wished to number among his vassals one so heinously duped?
De Arell sighed. “You know not how I yearned to shout from the battlements ’twas not my daughter you held.” He shrugged. “Though it would hardly please my brother that I did not, still I am satisfied.”
Bayard wrenched his sword from its scabbard.
“Bayard!” the treacherous one cried. Had she not grasped his arm, he would have put heels to his destrier to meet at swords with the one who mocked him.
De Arell did not set his own blade before him but threw up an arm to command his archers to stand down. “Enough, then.” He glared at Bayard. “I have my bit of flesh, and ’tis sufficient.”
Bayard’s chest heaved with an emotion so staggering it returned him to the desecration of his marriage bed. Determinedly, he dragged himself back to this moment and set his gaze to the hand upon him. “Pray hard, Elianor of Emberly. For yourself and your accursed uncle.”
Her eyes widened further. “Magnus had naught—”
“Another lie?” He made no attempt to temper how dark his soul was in that moment. “Regardless, your family will suffer.”
She released him.
He lowered his blade. “I will take my sister now, De Arell.”
“She is not yours to take.” The man’s destrier shifted, tossed its head, and was settled with a pat to the neck. “Your sister attempted to slay me”—he lifted his chin to reveal the scabbed gash beneath—“and for that none will deny my right to hold her. Thus, until such time as I determine what to do with Lady Quintin, she remains.” He frowned. “Of course, she is not much of a lady, is she?”
Bayard could not remember another time he had felt so powerless. Regardless of the sieges, skirmishes, and raids waged between their families, the Boursiers had more often prevailed, and whatever their losses, it was never even close to ruinous. Now to find himself at the mercy of another! And all for the treachery of Elianor of Emberly, the foolishness of Quintin, and the audacity of Griffin de Arell.
He tightened his grip on his sword.
It will benefit Quintin none if an arrow is put through you, he told himself and, with effort, returned his sword to its scabbard. “A pity my sister did not kill you.”
“I would not be surprised if that was her intent,” De Arell said. “But worry not. As long as daggers are kept from her, she need not fear me.”
“I would see her.”
“I will allow it. Indeed, with day soon to fade, ’twould be ill-mannered of me not to offer you a night’s lodging.”
It was hardly a sincere offer, but Bayard would accept it since the nearer he drew to Quintin, the greater the possibility of bringing her out of Castle Mathe.
“Of course, the invitation is extended to your wife as well.” De Arell once more flashed his teeth.
Bayard seethed. The man took far too much enjoyment in eschewing Elianor of Emberly’s name in favor of her false marital status.
Bayard glanced at where she sat once more working the ring around her finger, her gaze upon the gatehouse roof where Thomasin de Arell stood. “As it would be ill-mannered not to accept,” he said, “we shall avail ourselves of your hospitality.”
“Then come.” De Arell started to turn his mount.
“Surely you do not think I would enter your lair without a watch upon my back?” Bayard said.
Annoyance flickered across De Arell’s face, but he said, “I know I would not,” and swept a hand toward Bayard’s men. “Choose a half dozen if it pleases you.”
“Three shall suffice.” Squire Lucas, Sir Victor, and the priest—the latter should a witness of high repute be needed. Bayard looked to Magnus Verdun’s niece. “Remain here.”
As it hurt too much to gaze upon his hatred, El continued to watch Thomasin de Arell whose curiosity brimmed over the wall and wished she had not tried to avert King Edward’s decree. Too, how much better had she never glimpsed in Bayard a man different from the one who had worked ill upon her aunt.
When he spurred his horse back toward his men, she looked to Griffin de Arell.
He watched her out of eyes the color of rough seas—darkest blue, almost black. And intense, as was the rest of him. His dark blonde hair was cropped close at the sides, the crown longer and lighter as of one who is often out-of-doors. His face was passably handsome, but the growth of beard that was several days too long made him appear coarse. Too, though he was not near to being an old man, there were lines in his face that would not likely be found in Bayard’s for another dozen years, though the latter was only three years younger.
“So, you aspired to rid our families of the vile Boursier,” he said.
Resenting the easy manner in which he spoke, as if they were allied against a common evil, El retorted, “Be assured, Baron de Arell, had it been possible to rid my family of yours as well, I would have.”
His eyebrows jumped. “Mayhap marriage to you would not be preferable to marriage to the Boursier woman.”
El tipped her chin up. “Assuredly not, for I would have cut your throat.” It was a lie, but he could not know that.
He snorted. “Your threat falls short of its mark, my lady. Were you capable of such, Boursier would not have gone missing from his bed. He would have been found dead in it.”
How she resented being so easily known!
“As already told,” he said, “I thank you for sparing my daughter marriage to Boursier, for even your uncle is a better choice than what might have been.”
As if Magnus were foul! “Better for your daughter,” she snapped, “not Baron Verdun.”
His face darkened. “If you believe Quintin Boursier a better match for your uncle, you cannot have met the termagant.”
El knew this was not the direction she ought to go, but her churning emotions pushed her onward. “’Tis not necessary to meet her to know—”
“You believe my daughter is unworthy of your uncle?” There was something dangerous in his eyes.
She had not meant to imply that, had only been intent on arguing away her feeling of helplessness. But it seemed the enemy before her was not entirely without honor, for if she correctly interpreted his reaction, he cared for the young woman born into a common life.
She shook her head. “I did not say that, nor would I.” She felt momentary relief at the sound of approaching horses, and almost laughed. Griffin de Arell could flare his nostrils and glare all he liked, but she was safer in his company than Bayard’s.
“Take me to my sister, De Arell,” Bayard said when he once more gained her side.
The Baron of Blackwood turned his mount and started back across the drawbridge.
Though El longed to fall in behind Bayard with the three who had joined him, she urged her mount to keep pace with his. “You wish to know why I did it?” she asked.
He continued to stare after De Arell.
She dragged her teeth across her bottom lip. Gone was the night past when he had laid no cruel hand upon her, when he had shown concern for her fear, when he had made himself her pillow so she might become accustomed to him.
As they passed beneath the portcullis into the outer bailey, the wall walks of which teemed with garrison, El drew a deep breath. “I am sorry, Bayard.”
He looked around, and his singular gaze was so sharp she felt a pain in her chest. “Not yet you are.”
She believed it, though only long enough to recall his past threats. Before he could once more deny her his gaze, she said, “You forget that I am acquainted with your revenge. You will not harm me.”
He slowly smiled. “All has changed.”
More than his words, his tone shook her confidence, for it was frighteningly familiar. The last time she had heard a voice tainted with such was the eve of Murdoch’s death when he
had cornered her in the solar and demanded to know of the pouch of powders that had fallen from her sleeve. She had told him it was to ease the pain of her monthly flux, but he had not believed her and—
She blinked away the memory and came back to Bayard who watched her through a narrowed lid.
“All has changed,” she concurred with a sickening turn of the heart. She could only hope and pray Magnus would not be made to suffer as well.
“Thomasin!” Griffin de Arell called.
El followed the man’s turn of the head to the steps that descended from the gatehouse.
Stepping off them was the young woman who had exchanged stares with El from between the battlements. No mantle about her shoulders to ward off the chill, Thomasin snatched up her skirts without regard to her show of ankles and ran forward. Her lack of propriety reminded El of her youth. Of course, she had been no more than ten winters aged when last she had committed such an error.
De Arell halted his horse, and though his back was turned to El and the others, his stiffening shoulders evidenced he was displeased by his daughter’s advance. But though she should have noted it herself, she did not drop her skirts until she drew near.
He stretched out a hand to bring her astride, but she continued past him.
“Thomasin!”
She threw a glance over her shoulder. “I would see who is me.”
“She is Lady Elianor of Emberly,” her father said.
She gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. A moment later, she halted beside El. When she dropped her hand, a broad smile lit her face so completely that one could no longer call her plain. Still no beauty, but lovely in an easy way.
Thomasin glanced at Bayard and wrinkled her nose at his grim countenance. “Oh, Lady, that ye dared—and against The Boursier!” She laughed. “You must tell all!”
El ached for the humiliation that caused Bayard’s wrath to convulse in the space between them. And yet, she did not think it innocently inflicted. Thomasin de Arell’s eyes sparkled too much. She might be years younger than the one who had taken her name, but she knew what she did.
“Thomasin!” De Arell called.
She rolled her eyes. “We shall speak later,” she said and swung away.
El looked at Bayard. He was as still as stone, the only movement about him the muscle in his jaw as he stared at the one who had driven the shard of humiliation deeper.
Once Thomasin was seated before her father, they continued across the second drawbridge toward the keep.
El peered up the edifice that stood at the center of the inner bailey. On the summer past, it had surely been white washed, for the paint yet shone fresh and bright. Even the outbuildings had received a fresh coat.
Before the steps that ascended to the keep’s great hall, De Arell dismounted and lifted his daughter to the frozen ground. She turned toward El, but her father caught her arm.
“Make quick to the kitchen and tell Cook there shall be five more for supper.” He nudged her toward the steps.
Thomasin gave a huff of discontent and mounted the steps as a young knight of handsome proportions descended them.
De Arell acknowledged him with a nod, then turned to the lad who had taken his destrier’s reins. “Aid Lady Elianor in her dismount.”
“Squire Lucas will tend her and keep watch over her in my absence,” Bayard said and swung out of the saddle.
“As you wish.”
El watched as Squire Lucas stepped to his lord’s side to receive instructions. Though she could not hear what was said, she guessed Bayard was warning the young man against her.
Shortly, Bayard strode toward De Arell and demanded, “Where is she?”
His host made him wait while he conversed with the knight who had descended from his hall. The man nodded once and again, then remounted the steps.
“Your sister is in yon tower.” De Arell nodded at the wall of the inner bailey.
“My lady?” Squire Lucas called to El.
She looked at where he had come alongside and leaned toward him.
As he lifted her down, she watched De Arell and Bayard, followed by Sir Victor and Father Crispin, stride opposite.
The moment her feet touched the ground, the squire released her.
Beneath her mantle, El clasped her hands and silently prayed her actions had not caused Quintin Boursier to suffer.
“Come, my lady.” Squire Lucas gestured for her to precede him up the steps of the keep.
A short while later, the knight who had introduced himself as Sir Otto, threw open the door of a chamber and motioned El to enter.
She stepped past him to the center of the room, turned, and asked, “Where is Baron Boursier to bed, Sir Otto?”
His eyebrows arched above darkest brown eyes. “With his wife, of course.”
Remembering the tone with which Bayard had threatened her, El swallowed hard and glanced past him to Squire Lucas who remained in the corridor. Forcing a smile, she said, “I thank you, Sir Otto.”
He inclined his head. “I am pleased to be of service, my lady.” He retreated, and as he drew the door closed, added, “Baron de Arell has ordered a bath delivered to your chamber to ease the labor of your journey.”
Alone, El considered the chamber that was of good size and well furnished, and was surprised that De Arell had not placed Bayard and her in a room better suited to one’s enemy.
She advanced on the bed and halted at the realization of what she did. Though tempted to sink down upon it, she would not have Bayard find her there. Because of her deceit, he was no longer the man of the night past, and though part of her did not wish to believe he would truly harm her, that credulous side of her had not seen his face, nor his hands that had flexed as if to feel her neck between them, nor heard his voice vowing vengeance.
El nearly pitied herself that she would once more suffer a man’s cruelty, but no good would come of it. Somehow she would survive as she had done with Murdoch. However, for all her self-assurance, she shuddered at the prospect of another long, torturous journey.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The door banged against the wall, and there Quintin stood, a scowl on her face, arms folded over her chest. But the moment her gaze lit upon him, her defiance dissolved, and she ran forward.
“Bayard!”
He stepped into her prison, opened his arms, and wrapped them around her. Though he was still in the grip of anger, and some of it was her due, he allowed her to cling to him. After all, who knew what ills she had suffered? And Griffin de Arell would pay for every one of them.
She tipped her face up. “He has freed you?”
He shook his head. “Never did De Arell hold me, Quintin.”
Like a pond disturbed by a pebble cast to its center, her brow rippled. “I do not understand. If ’twas not that vile mis—”
“’Twas not this vile miscreant,” De Arell drawled.
Quintin lurched sideways to peer past Bayard. “Aye, miscreant,” she said.
Bayard released her, stepped to the side. Though relieved she showed no signs of bruising or abrasions, it did not mean her garments did not hide marks of aggression. He looked to De Arell in the doorway. “I would speak with my sister alone.”
The man settled a shoulder to the door frame. “I await your apology, Lady Quintin.”
She put her chin in the air. “How gratifying to know you shall wait forever.”
A smile tilted his lips. “That is not so long—at least, not for one who has the freedom to spend his days and nights as he pleases. You, however…”
She expelled a breath of anger.
He slid his gaze down her, the appreciation with which he did so causing Bayard to struggle against the impulse to set upon him. Then the man pushed off the door frame and gripped the door handle. “A half hour, Boursier. That is all.”
Bayard longed to demand more, but he stayed his tongue. He had only three men with him, and one a priest. Now was not the time to challenge De Arell. That would come later
.
Catching Sir Victor’s gaze past the Baron of Blackwood, Bayard inclined his head to remind the man to remain alert.
When the door closed, Quintin demanded, “If not De Arell, who?”
“Elianor of Emberly.”
Her head jerked as if he had slapped her. “Magnus Verdun’s niece? She who makes of herself his leman?”
“The same you wished me to wed.”
“But—”
“What harm has De Arell done you, Quintin?”
Annoyance flashed across her face. “He is arrogant, ill-tempered—”
“He struck you?”
“He would not dare!”
Then De Arell had not used his fists on her. Still, there were other ways to do harm. Bayard drew a deep breath. “I would know all that befell you.”
“The knave took my dagger!”
Lord, grant me patience, he silently beseeched. “After you cut him, I presume.”
“Would that I had cut him deeper!”
“What else did he do?”
She gestured at the room. “Know you how many days I have suffered this place?”
“Quintin!”
She frowned. “What?”
“Has De Arell abused you in any way?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Did the baron beat me? Toss up my skirts and do unto me deeds most foul?”
“Quintin!”
She crossed to the bed and dropped to the mattress. “Griffin de Arell is a churl, a knave, a miscreant. But nay, those things he did not do.”
Bayard experienced such relief that he momentarily felt light of body. By the divisiveness of a woman, Godsmere might be lost, but at least Quintin would not bear the brutal scars of that loss. But that unsettled him in a different way. De Arell was a formidable enemy who ought to show no compunction against striking at the Boursiers through Quintin—even in spite of the king’s decree that the three families ally.
“You should have sent for Rollo that he might accompany you,” Bayard said.
“As I am sure you were told, his mother was ill. And ’tis not as if I did not have an impressive escort.”
The difference was that the man-at-arms would have stood behind her while she dined with De Arell and likely would have prevented her from attacking her host. However, it was of no benefit to point that out.